She narrows her eyes and I laugh. What she doesn’t know is that I spent two summers living with my grandmother in Sydney when she was sick, and her favourite thing to do was watch old movies. We’d sit on the couch, surrounded with junk food, and watch movie after movie, getting lost in the history of it all. At thirteen, if my friends had known how I spent my summers they would have laughed me out of town. While they were getting into girls and sports, I was making the most of the time I had left with my gran. My time with her is some of the best memories I have of my childhood.
“Gone with the Wind.” She grins. She cocks her head, like she’s sure she has me.
I hesitate, not because I haven’t seen it—I’ve seen it more times than I’ll admit—but because I want to give her false hope.
“You should be kissed, by someone who knows how.” I say the words smoothly, not taking my eyes off her.
She blushes, but quickly recovers. “Overboard.”
“Overboard?” I repeat with a grin.
“You know, with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell,’ she says, waving her hand impatiently.
“I know the movie, I just thought we were talking classics,” I chuckle.
“‘Classic’ is a relative term,” she retorts, her tone defensive. “It’s a classic to somebody.”
“She might have no tits, but she sure has a nice ass.” I sit forward and hit Play. “You might as well give up. This is one game you’re not going to win.”
She glowers at me, but sits back in her seat, her eyes fixated on the screen of my phone. “Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll watch your damn movie, but I don’t have to enjoy it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Erin
An hour in and I’m bored out of my mind. I can't believe I’m actually wasting my time watching this crap, but as I glance over at him and I see the joy on his face my heart melts just a little bit. I settle back, finding myself snuggled closer to him. Every now and then he lets out a laugh, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes at the crap that is on the screen. But the truth is, I’ll sit through hours of this if it means I get to sit next to him.
He smells nice—kind of like peppermint mixed with his general guy smell. It's a nice, comforting scent.
I wonder what he would be like to kiss. What would his lips taste like? Would he kiss me slow and sweet, or with urgency, like he can't get enough of me? My face heats as I try to drag my thoughts away from things that are just never going to happen.
Even at my best, I've never been good with guys. I had a couple of boyfriends through high school, but nothing serious. Sex was always awkward, and something that happened because it was supposed to and because it was expected, not because it was fun. And then I got sick, and all that stuff took a back seat. I read books and watch movies where the chemistry makes my heart race, but it also makes me sad, because I've never experienced that kind of connection and I’m probably not going to. Because I’m dying. I’m running out of time.
It’s funny how the little things like that are the ones that hurt the most. I crave that physical connection with someone before I die. I know they’re not going to be the love of my life—well, relatively speaking, there is a good chance they will be—but something is better than nothing. At the moment, the title of Love of my Life goes to Mike in year ten and his sloppy, face-eating kisses.
If I had more balls, I would make a move on Cade—but I won’t, because the fear of rejection outweighs everything else. I glance at him again. He stares at the screen, captivated in the same way I’m captivated by him. If I kissed him right now…how would he react? Would he kiss me back? Or would he push me away? My heart aches just at the thought of being that close to him—being that close to anyone, so vulnerable and exposed. I sit
forward and put down my beer on the little table next to me.
This is why I shouldn’t drink. It clearly messes with my ability to think straight.
I think about what Cade asked me earlier. What do I want out of this trip? Apart from the obvious, I want something I can take with me that nobody can take away. At the risk of sounding like a lovesick teenager, I want to be loved. As shallow as this is going to sound, I knew the second I saw his photo on Facebook that he was the one coming on this trip with me.
“Fine, you win.” I say the words with defeat, because I know that he’s right: I’m playing it safe because I’m scared. I’m terrified of everything this trip is really about. I’ve told so many lies to my family and friends that I’m actually starting to believe them. I know what I want and it’s time I’m honest to myself.
He glances at me, and I remember we’re supposed to be watching a movie and I blush.
“Sorry, I was thinking about what you said before, about me needing to take chances. I never properly answered you. I’ll do it your way.”
“This isn’t about me winning, Erin. It’s about you.” He stops the movie and fishes through his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen. “Here. Write down five things that describe how you feel, and five things that describe how you want to feel.”
I scrunch up my nose, deep in thought as I stare at the blank paper.
Scared. Angry. Alone. Exhausted. Afraid.
How do I want to feel?
Not scared. Not Alone. Not afraid.